Vines
Vines
As they are now,
Greenless vines
Set in a dry, chalky hillside,
It seems impossible
They will ever leaf out
And swell with clusters.
Unlikely that workers
Will come in hoods,
Brandishing knives.
No crush, no long
Slumber in oaken barrels,
No holding
The glass to the light,
No holding
The oval-shaped sip
A moment in the mouth,
No laughter and dancing
Under spinning stars.
Here is where
The poem should turn
And say that
These grapes are a lesson
About digging deep
In hardship,
Finding sweetness
In a vein that appears
To be dry,
But I’m tired
Of poems that console.